


A Study in Surfing

by thetsaria



Series: Surfer!Lock Drabbles [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Meeting, M/M, Pre-Slash, Surfing, surfer!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-09
Updated: 2014-06-09
Packaged: 2018-02-04 01:07:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1761407
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetsaria/pseuds/thetsaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ah, Mike. Could I borrow your phone? I need to send a text."</p>
<p>John glanced up. The owner of the voice was a young man, leaning over a microscope. Under his laboratory coat, he was wearing a wetsuit, half rolled down, and a T-shirt with the label, ‘Holmes Surfing’. Oh, and he was barefoot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Study in Surfing

"Come on. Who’d want me for a flatmate?"

John Watson had recently taken to long walks along the beach. It wasn’t that he lived anywhere near the beach, on the contrary: his meagre army pension could only allow for a modest bedsit on the far end of town. That didn’t stop him from taking the tube every morning, and walking the rest of the way. It was an activity originally suggested by his therapist, after several unsuccessful attempts at blogging, and for some reason, unlike a lot of her other suggestions, he had actually tried it out.

He loved the sea. He had worked there as a lifeguard during university, and even during his summers in medical school for extra cash. He loved the rolling sound of the waves and the salty air. He loved the feel of wet sand under his toes and the warmth of the water when you swam through it.

Usually, though, he just sat there, on a lone bench way back from the shore, watching others from a safe distance. As much as he wanted to wade into the water, his limp and cane made things a bit more.. complicated. 

"John!" 

He perked his head up. A familiar face was approaching him – he struggled to put a name to it. Mark? Matt?

"John Watson! Do you remember me? Mike? Mike Stamford?"

John let out a sigh, but forced a smile as he shook the man’s hand, scooting over to make room on the bench. “Mike, right, of course. How are you?”

"Oh, just fine. Life took me, you know! Got a wife, got a kid," – at that, he waved to a blond woman and pudgy little child playing near the shore – "Put on a few pounds, too, eh." 

John’s mind had already wandered off, and Mike had to repeat his next question.

"What about you, mate? I heard you were off somewhere, getting shot! So what happened?"

He cleared his throat and glanced down at his lame leg, tapping it slightly with his cane. Mike seemed to make the connection by the way his face paled.

"I got shot."

Somehow, for some reason, the conversation picked up a bit from there. Granted, it was rather lacking on John’s end, but Mike didn’t seem to mind. He learned that his old friend was now working at St. Barts’, the hospital where they’d both trained, only a few blocks from the beach. And, eventually, they came to the subject of their houses.

"I’ve only got a tiny little bedsit. Wish it could be closer to the beach, but can’t get much on an army pension."

"Why don’t you get one of those – flatshares? Surely someone would be interested."

John scoffed at that. Honestly? A useless army doctor with a limp?

"Come on. Who’d want me for a flatmate?"

—-

"This is certainly different than back in my day."

John stepped into the laboratory. The windows were wide open, a soft breeze blowing in, which brought a small smile to his face. You could hear the crash of the waves as well as the occasional seagull. Not the best environment for a scientific lab, but he could see the appeal. 

"Ah, Mike. Could I borrow your phone? I need to send a text."

John glanced up. The owner of the voice was a young man, leaning over a microscope. He seemed to know very much what he was doing, and yet, John couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at him. Under his laboratory coat, he was wearing a wetsuit, half rolled down, and a T-shirt with the label, ‘Holmes Surfing’. Oh, and he was barefoot.

"It’s in my pocket, sorry."

"Here, use mine."

The stranger looked up from his microscope, having noticed John seemingly for the first time. It was then that the ex-army doctor could really take in the other man’s appearance: curly, dark hair, slightly damp; sun-kissed skin; and bright, piercing eyes, of a color somewhere between violet and green that John couldn’t quite determine.

He murmured a thank you, sliding open John’s phone carelessly in a way that made the doctor wince. It was what came after that was intriguing, though. 

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"I’m sorry?"

"I asked, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John stared a moment, blinking. His gaze travelled from the stranger, to Mike, who was smirking knowingly, then back to the stranger. 

"Afghanistan, how did you –"

"How do you feel about the violin?"

John was becoming increasingly confused. “What are you on about?”

"The violin, mate. I play it when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

John sighed, turning back to Mike. “You told him about me.”

Dr. Stamford chuckled. “Not a word.”

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

The beautiful stranger chuckled. “I did. Told Mike here that I’m quite a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t too difficult a leap.”

"How did you know about my service?”

The man shrugged off his lab coat, hanging it up and tossing John his phone back. “I have my eye on a nice flat. The building’s right on the beach. Together we should be able to afford it.”

John shifted uneasily, his grip tightening on his cane. “We’ve only just met, and we’re going to look at a flat? We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t even know your name.”

The man padded towards the door, leaning against the frame and fiddling with the zipper on his wetsuit, a smirk on his face that grew as he talked. “I know you’re an Army doctor, recently invalided home from Afghanistan. You’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.

"I also know she suggested you try walking along the beach to help. But that won’t help, not by itself. As soon as we get rid of your limp, we can begin surfing lessons. Don’t give me that look, your opinion of surfers is obvious. But the sport is elegant, and it would help your leg. I conduct personal surfing lessons, which I would gladly offer in exchange for – your covering the utility bills in the flat?

"I suppose that just about covers it. The name’s Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Good afternoon!"

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Let me know if you liked it, or have any constructive criticism. I would really appreciate it!
> 
> If you'd like, you can also follow me on Tumblr @ughjawn !


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